


Uncle Peter Appreciation Day

by PunkPinkPower



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Everybody Lives, Fluff, Future Fic, Gen, Pack Dynamics, Pack Family, Pack Feels, Sassy Peter Hale, Unnecessarily long, but still good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:45:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunkPinkPower/pseuds/PunkPinkPower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several years down the line, and no one has really ever warmed up to Peter.  And, to be honest, it gets old, being the bad guy all the time.  All he wants is a little appreciation, every once in a while… is that too much to ask?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uncle Peter Appreciation Day

**Author's Note:**

> Because I love sassy Uncle Peter, and the man deserves some appreciation. This takes place several years after season 3, and EVERBODY LIVES OKAY. JUST SHUT UP.

It’s impossible to sleep past 6AM in this house. 

If it’s not the smell of someone cooking fresh food, it’s the sound of Stiles’ ridiculously loud jeep, or Derek chopping firewood in the backyard, or some of the younger wolves running through the halls playing keep away or ass grabbing. 

It’s one of the things Peter just accepts about having a pack again, but sometimes he wakes up and thinks it’s his little girls running down the hall, only to realize that their scents are nowhere to be found in this house, this new, fresh yet familiar house, and that it’s instead Erica and Isaac running down the hall making noise. He never dwells on it too long, but occasionally, for a half second, he’ll remember what it was like to wake up in bed next to the love of his life, with his girls climbing in over them demanding breakfast. 

And then he waves that away as quickly as possible and never lets himself get sentimental, because there’s no point. A real family isn’t something he’ll ever have again. 

He has a pack, of course. And he has Derek, his obnoxious little snot of a nephew for an alpha, and Cora, his sweet yet vicious niece. But they’re not exactly like a family, in any way, shape or form. Some days they don’t even speak to one another. 

Most of the rest of the pack lives in the house now, and those of them that don’t might as well, because they’re always there. Stiles technically lives in the dorms at his community college, but Peter knows as well as anyone else that he has a drawer in Derek’s room. Scott is still living with his mom, but he has a permanent cot set up in Isaac, Erica and Boyd’s room. And where ever Scott is, it can be assured Allison will follow, even when there is no reason for any of them to be there. 

Like right now, at 6AM, as Peter trots down the stairs, he can hear their voices chatting merrily away in the kitchen before the coffee is even brewed. 

Sometimes he can’t wait until these kids hit thirty. He desperately wants to watch them all crash and burn as their limitless energy finally runs out. And then, immediately after, he thinks, _God, I have to wait until these kids hit thirty._

He walks into the kitchen, and other than a brief glance up from Cora, there is no greeting. No ‘Good Morning’, no ‘Sleep well?’. Nobody ever seems to pay Peter much mind. 

“I think you should stop trying to convince me to go,” Cora is saying, and she is looking disgustingly at the cup of coffee that Stiles is pouring his--fifth?--creamer into. 

“Have you met him?” Allison wonders, sipping her own black coffee with an amused and fond look at Stiles. “I don’t think ‘stop’ or ‘give up’ are even words in his vocabulary.” 

“I will choose to take that as a compliment,” Stiles says evenly, finally stirring his coffee. “Come on, it’s like one week, and you’ve never been.” 

“Well gee,” Cora says amicably, making a thinking gesture, “I wonder why that could be? Perhaps because I dropped out of school at 12 years old and never received a formal education where I’d have the chance to go to the Smithsonian Museum.”

It doesn’t even faze anyone anymore. 

“Exactly, it’ll be an adventure!” Stiles says. 

Cora rolls her eyes. “Leave it alone. Take Isaac, I’m sure he’d love to go.” 

At that moment, Isaac and Erica come strolling into the kitchen, Isaac’s eyebrows perked up like a curious dog. “Go where?” 

“Cora doesn’t want to go to the Smithsonian Museum with me and my architecture class next week,” Stiles says, crossing his arms and frowning. 

“Why not?” Isaac frowns, and Peter can see the wheels turning in his head as he turns a chair around and sits down with them. 

“It’s not like it would do me any good,” Cora says, and she sounds annoyed. “Take someone who could maybe, I don’t know, appreciate it.” 

“For what it’s worth,” Peter pipes up from the counter, finishing his small cup of coffee and placing the mug in the sink, and stepping forward to take an apple from the bowl of fruit in the middle of the table, “I think you’d enjoy it. It’s not all science babble talk, you know. And if you get a headphone set to tune out your company, it’ll probably be quite enjoyable.” Peter smacks Stiles hard on the back, to make sure they all know exactly what he means. 

He receives, in order, a glare from Stiles, a scowl from Scott, raised eyebrows from Erica and Isaac, and a, “What would you know about it?” from Allison. 

Peter rolls his eyes, bites into his apple, holds his hands up in surrender and retreats back to leaning against the counter so they can go back to ignoring him. 

“I have a better idea,” Cora says, drawing everyone’s attention back to her, “How about you run the obstacle course at the track and if you can beat it without whining I’ll agree to go?” 

“Awe well that’s not even fair,” Stiles says immediately, “If you don’t want to go just say so, there’s no need to torture me.” 

Erica hums happily. “I don’t know,” she says, amused, “I always enjoy a good Stiles torture session.” 

“Don’t we all,” Derek says as he comes into the kitchen through the back door, stretching, still sweating from his morning run. He goes over, bends down, kisses Cora on the top of her head, and gives everyone one of his ‘eat shit’ smiles. “Do we get to do the torturing or is there already a plan in place?” 

“Hey,” Stiles objects immediately, “There will be no torturing of the defenseless human, alright? Right, Allison?” Stiles looks over to her, and she gives him a slight incline of her head. “You’ll protect me, right?” 

“Oh, you know me,” Allison purrs, holding her coffee to her lips and glancing quickly over at Derek, “I’m always happy to shoot a quiver of arrows into Derek and his pack.” 

Derek flashes his eyes at her once, but she grins, and its clear there’s no animosity between them anymore. 

“I think you should go,” Derek tells Cora, picking up the Smithsonian brochure and flipping through it, “It might be fun.” 

Core tilts her head back and forth. “Is that an order from my alpha or an order from my older brother?” 

“It’s not an order,” Derek says, smirking, “But I think you’d enjoy it.” 

Cora sighs a much belabored sigh and says, “Fine, when do we leave?” 

Peter rolls his eyes, tosses his apple core in the trash and leaves the kitchen. 

He goes about the rest of his day like he normally would. He stops in to see Deaton, gets a list of supplies Deaton needs picked up from neighboring cities, which are all things he could probably order online but going through Peter keeps his werewolf repair business on the side of things and untraceable. It’s a feeble excuse for the busy work, but Deaton always seems to express genuine thankfulness to Peter for doing it, so he can’t bring himself to break the arrangement. 

He stops in to the local barber shop to have his hair trimmed just a touch, fire a few sassy one liners off at the old men sitting in the chairs, always tips them well. He runs by the animal preserve, lets out a few playful howls to the wolves living there now. Stiles’s father had them brought in a few years ago to help explain some of the odd animal noises the residents of Beacon Hills kept reporting. The wolves howl back, and he spends a few moments with them and their wolf-like sincerity. 

Then he meets Melissa McCall at the soup kitchen and together they put on hair nets and make sandwiches and serve the hungry, which he does for several reasons, not the least of which is that when his pack finds out a few of them might die from the shock. But he does it for Melissa, too, because she is, at the very least, always genuinely happy to see him. 

And after all that he still finds himself back at the house early, before dinnertime, staring at the large porch from his car, feeling a little bit tired. 

In the end, it’s all busy work, routine, ways to keep himself occupied. None of it means much to him, but it’s a way to get himself out of the house, which is good, because not only does he not want to be a forty year old shut in, he gets the feeling that the rest of the pack prefers it when he’s away. 

Which is fine, really, he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t like them, most of the time, either. But it would be nice, every once in a while, if they could do just a touch more than tolerate his presence. If there was at least a head nod towards him when he walked in the door after his day, if someone would ask his advice about something, or hey, invite him to help with something. It really wasn’t the much to ask for, was it? 

But then, murder a few people, bite a couple of teenagers, physiologically damage a young woman and force her to bring you back from the dead and apparently you’re the bad guy. Forever. Period. 

Boyd is in the living room, soda in hand, staring at the TV. Peter listens for a minute and determines that only Derek and Erica are here, and Erica appears to be upstairs and Derek in the backyard, so he goes out to see what he’s up to. 

He grabs a beer first, not because it can do anything, but because he likes the familiar taste of it, and he finds Derek working on something with a hammer and saw in the backyard next to the garden. 

“Awe,” Peter intones, inspecting the small boards cut, “What are we building? A crib? Expecting any new screaming additions to the pack I should know about?” 

Derek glances up with his eyebrows raised for a moment, turns back to measuring out the boards. “It’s a bookshelf. Stiles and Isaac want one in the living room.” 

Peter nods, inspects the cuts of the rough wood and sips from his beer. “I could go get the sander,” he offers, tilting his head towards the shed, “smooth out these pieces for you while you finish cutting them.” 

Derek doesn’t look up, only considers for a second, makes a mark on the wood with more concentration than he gives to Peter. “I’ve got it,” he says, and he pulls the saw up, starts making a new cut. 

Peter waits until the board drops and the saw stops to add, “Want me to go pick up some paint for it?” 

“Lydia’s coming over with some leftover from their house,” Derek answers. 

Peter nods, kicks his feet back and forth. “Sure you don’t want me to at least hold the nails for you, on the off chance you can smash my thumb with a hammer?” 

Derek gives Peter a small smirk, which is at least appreciation of his joke, but he doesn’t answer, keeps marking the wood. 

Peter goes back inside. 

Boyd is easy. Boyd is quiet. He’s just chilling in the living room, not saying a word, watching something on TV. Boyd is, at least, the safest option of social interaction in this house. 

Peter goes over, sits down on the couch, puts his feet up, sips his beer. After a couple of minutes he asks, “What are we watching?” but Boyd doesn’t answer, and Peter tries to follow some ridiculous storyline about suburban housewives who look like supermodels. 

He hears Scott coming, tilts his head in greeting as he and Isaac come through the door. Isaac glances at him, Scott gives him a tight smile, and they head upstairs. 

But it isn’t long before Scott is coming back down the stairs, and Allison’s car is coming up the drive. 

“Hey,” Scott says, holding open the door for her as she comes in, “I thought you were going to come over later with Lydia and Jackson?” 

“I was but I ordered something for you and it came in and I couldn’t wait,” Allison rattles off, and then she’s pulling something out of a big plastic bag, and Peter cranes his head over the back of the sofa to watch. 

He smirks as she pulls out what looks like a bulletproof vest, little metal plated arm bands, a cup. He rolls his eyes, turns his head but keeps listening to their conversation. 

“You bought me…” Scott says carefully, as though choosing his next words wisely, “paintball gear?” 

He hears Allison huff. “It’s armor. Military grade armor. You can wear it the next time the pack has to handle something supernatural or deal with hunters, it’ll protect you.” 

“Allison,” Scott says, and he sound skeptical, stretching the material. “It won’t fit,” he says at last, sounding remorseful, “Especially not if I have to shift, I’ll rip it right off.” 

“No, look,” Allison insists, and the ‘I’m right’ tone of her voice and the quickening of Scotts heartbeat tells him this is going to be interesting, “It’s adjustable, and it stretches.”

“It’s too heavy,” Scott adds a moment later, “Especially if we’re dealing with other wolves. It’ll weigh me down,” he says, hoisting it in the air to emphasis. 

“It’ll keep you from getting shot full of wolfs bane,” Allison says determinedly, and Peter can’t help it. 

He chuckles. 

He can feel their gazes shift to him, and Allison’s voice a moment later, “You have something to add, _Peter_?” With particular venom in his name. 

He shifts in his seat so he’s half facing them, sips his beer casually. “It won’t work.” 

Allison looks at Scott, who looks down at his feet like a preschooler in trouble, and then crosses her arms and looks back at Peter. “Excuse me?”

“Look, the kid’s right, even if he could shift in it, which he can’t, it won’t do him any good. That stuff’s faulty, not to mention it’s no good against arrows or tazers.” Peter tells her, and he can see the anger swelling in her. 

“It’s made to withstand machine gun fire,” she says defensively. 

Peter rolls his eyes at her, turns back to the TV. “Fine, suit him up, poor lad, then you can fire a few arrows at him to test if I’m right.” 

“And how exactly would you know?” Allison wants to know, tapping her foot. 

Peter focuses on the TV, tries not to see the soft brown curls of his daughters hair as he says, “Because I bought some for my daughter about 15 years ago, the first time your family moved to Beacon Hills. Didn’t stop your crazy aunt from shooting an arrow through her arm.” 

Scott instantly hisses at him, but Peter doesn’t flinch. He can feel the conflict coming off Allison, the guilt, the remorse, the anger, the disappointment, the embarrassment. Finally he hears shuffling and she says quietly, “Never mind, I’ll just, here, it was a bad idea.”

He hears her go out the front door, and then Scott says, “Why do you always have to say things like that?” Before he follows her. 

Peter sits quietly for a few minutes, finally he says to Boyd, “Humans, huh?” 

But Boyd doesn’t answer again, just keeps staring glossy eyed at the TV. 

Peter leans over, looks at Boyd with some concern. “You just tune us all out, don’t you? Are you even up there?” Peter reaches over, waves a hand in front of Boyd’s face. 

Boyd catches his hand, shoves it out of his views and says, “This is a new episode. If you interrupt my shows I will crack every single one of your vertebrae in half. Twice.” 

Peter leans back, holds his hands up in surrender and leans back and away from the ridiculously strong young beta. “Okaaay,” he drawls, and he carefully gets up and exits the living room. 

***

By the time the pack is gathering in the house for whatever activity they’re going to go out and do that he isn’t invited to, Peter finds himself outside, on the small half basketball court that Stiles and Jackson had built the summer before, and argued about the entire time. 

To their credit, it’s surprisingly level. Level enough that Peter can turn around, toss the basketball over his shoulder and still make the shot, without too much utilization of his werewolf senses. 

Scott’s the last to arrive, clicking the alarm on his car like there’s even a worry about it being broken into out here, and trailing up to the porch. 

Peter offers a wave, and Scott, to his credit, nods in return. Only Peter’s feeling a little frustrated today, so when Scott turns his back to go inside, Peter makes a last minute decision to toss the basketball at the back of his head. 

He doesn’t do it with any particular force, but when it bounces off Scott’s oddly shaped head with a small thud and Scott stops in his tracks, Peter does feel a little kick of joy. 

It really is the little things in life that are important. 

Scott turns, picks up the basketball with a questioning look. 

“Oh, sorry,” Peter drawls, stepping over a little bit, “It’s those old man bones of mine, butterfingers, you know.” And he gives Scott one of his most charming and irritating smiles. 

Scott tilts his head for a minute, like a puppy trying to figure something out, and then he walks over, hands Peter the ball. “It’s okay,” he says with a small grin, and he watches Peter dribble the ball a minute and make a basket. 

Peter turns back to him expectantly. 

“Are you okay, Peter?” Scott asks suddenly, frowning, “I mean, is there anything wrong?” 

Peter raises his eyebrows, picks up the basketball, makes a couple of speculative noises. “Well, now, that is an interesting question,” he says at last, tapping his lips with a finger, “But it wouldn’t matter if there was, would it? I’m just crazy old Uncle Peter, I don’t have any problems or feelings. So in the end your question is, I’m afraid, pointless.” 

Scott’s frown deepens. “So there is something wrong?” 

Peter rolls his eyes. “Did you really graduate top of your class?” 

Scott gets an annoyed look, lets Peter know his patience is waning. 

“Look, I’m not saying I’ve got it so bad,” Peter tells him, shooting the ball again and missing. “You guys are a good pack, and your good kids, though I gotta tell you I’m a little concerned about Boyd but that’s a separate issue,” Peter rattles off, but he tries to stay on track so Scott can follow. “All I’m looking for is a little bit of acknowledgement around her, a little bit of a sense that I actually belong in this pack and I’m not just here because no one wants to take it upon themselves to kick me out. Now I put up with a lot from you guys, and maybe I let my mouth run a little more than I should but that hardly, _hardly_ justifies the complete lack of any kind of social interaction with me.” 

Scott has crossed his arms, is frowning and actually listening, but Peter can tell he’s a little bit uncomfortable. “I don’t think it’s a conscious thing,” he says after a couple of moment of slow thinking, “I just, I mean, you sort of make people uncomfortable.” 

Peter scoffs, “Oh, what? Because I killed my niece in a psychotic rage and bit you? That was, what, six years ago now? Come on, you’re telling me Derek and Allison can become best girlfriends, but the pack can’t get over the fact that I happened to be smart enough to come back from the dead not once, but twice?” 

Scott shuffles his feet. “It’s… I mean… that’s actually a pretty good point.” 

Peter considers Scott for a moment, grins a bit. “Thank you,” he says, as genuinely as he’s capable of. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about, right there. Just a little bit of appreciation.” Peter tosses the basketball towards the hoop, not caring if he makes it, hearing the others coming towards the front door. “It’s the little things, Scott.” 

Scott turns as the door opens, as Lydia calls out, “See, he’s out here, let’s go!”, and Peter meanders off into the night, not waiting for Scott to turn back around. 

***

“Please tell me,” Stiles says as he sits back down in his seat, “That I’m dreaming. Did the words ‘Maybe we should be a little nicer to Peter’ really just leave your mouth?” 

Scott turns, can already feel he’s being judged on several different levels, and he watches Jackson get up to go bowl before he continues. 

“Look, I’m just saying, he’s feeling really underappreciated,” Scott says, and Derek lets out an amused snort, to while Stiles points and nods emphatically. 

“Scott,” Isaac says, picking up his bowling ball, “Peter’s a jerk. He’s creepy, and nosy, and-”

“And are we forgetting the time he possessed me and forced me to use Derek to bring him back from the dead?” Lydia chimes in, as pleasant as ever. 

“Or the time he held me hostage and forced me to lead him to you because he wanted to _kill you_?” Stiles adds, with his usual emphasis. 

“Or the time he tried to bone your mom,” Jackson adds, laughing a bit as he sits down and swings his arm around Lydia. 

“Or that time he killed my sister to become the alpha?” Cora asks from her seat next to Stiles. 

“Or the literally hundreds of times he’s tried to _kill you_?” Stiles waves his hands around for emphasis, and Scott is getting identical looks from everyone in the pack, save for Derek who is still tying on his bowling shoes and looking deceptively nonchalant. 

“Self preservation!” Scott argues, and god, it sucks being a good guy, sometimes. “And that was all years ago, I mean, he wasn’t exactly his normal self.” 

“No, what a pity,” Erica grins sarcastically, “I’m sure that would have put everything right, his normal self being such a charming, helpful individual.” 

“No, think about it,” Scott says, holding up a hand, “When was the last time he did anything seriously vindictive to any of us?” 

Allison raises her hand, points at the alley. “It’s your turn.” 

Scott lets out a frustrated noise, picks up a ball and throws it down the lane without looking and comes back to keep arguing. “Look, I’m not saying we have to go out of our way or anything. Just, you know, little things. Peter’s a part of that pack, right? We’re supposed to support each other. Even,” he adds at Derek’s skeptical look, “When we don’t like each other.” 

“Nice addendum,” Stiles says, arms folded, face contorted with his ‘my best friend is a potato’ look and god, Scott’s sick of that look, “Since I’m pretty sure no one here likes Peter.” 

“That’s not true,” Boyd says, speaking up for the first time all night. “I don’t like him, but I don’t have any particular beef with him.” 

“Do you really think he would leave the pack?” Isaac wonders, looking first to Scott, then to Derek. 

Derek shrugs. “It’s been known to happen, sometimes,” he says, and his eyes glance over Boyd and Erica, who are _absolutely_ avoiding his gaze. 

“Look that might sound like it would be really great to all of you,” Scott says, and he crosses his arms, “But I’d feel terrible. I mean, do we really not like him enough to bully him out of the pack? Where would he go?”

“He doesn’t have anywhere else to go,” Cora says, sighing like she’s making up her own mind, and Stiles gives her a worried look, “We’re the only family he has.” 

There’s silence for a few minutes, until finally Derek gets up to pick up his bowling ball, and he hands it to Scott. “Still your turn.” 

Scott goes up to the lane, let’s the ball go, watches it knock down a few pins and comes back over to the others. 

“So what are we talking here,” Erica asks seriously, “like ‘Crazy Homicidal Uncle Peter Appreciation Day’?” 

Scott shrugs. “Or just, you know, try to be a little bit nice to him, for a change.” 

Everyone considers this. Scott sits down in his seat, watches Derek bowl a strike and come back over to sit down. 

“I’m not going to be nice to him,” Allison says to the group at large, and then she looks at Scott. “I won’t be mean, but I’m not going to be nice.” 

Scott gives her a small smile, takes her hand. “That would probably be enough.” 

***

Peter isn’t sure what time he wakes up. He knows it’s later than six, because there’s light coming through his western facing window, but he gets up stretches, wonders if the pack stayed out all night. 

Only, no… he smells food. So someone must be home. 

He traipses down the stairs to the kitchen to find Erica cooking pancakes at the stove. Isaac is quietly reading something at the table, but he looks up at Peter’s entrance and says, “Morning.” 

Peter doesn’t actually do a double-take, but he does narrow his eyes as he repeats the greeting. He pours himself a cup of coffee, eyes Erica’s pancakes and feels his insides twist. “Are those… banana pancakes?” 

Erica grins. “Yes, they are,” she says, and with a smirk she flips another one onto a plate and then goes over to the table, places the plate down with a knife and fork, and holds the chair open. “Cora told me they were your favorite.” 

Peter considers her for a long, long moment. Finally, he ambles over to the table, takes a deep sniff of the pancakes and sits down in the chair Erica pushes in for him. She reaches over, tucks a napkin into his shirt, and Peter gives her the side eye. “Are they poison?” 

Erica rolls her eyes. “They’re made with love and kindness,” she says as she goes over to the counter. She comes back with a couple of little flowers in a tiny vase and sets them in front of him, as though this completes the meal. 

“So be careful,” Isaac says, smiling at them, “They might be.” 

Peter decides to take his chances. 

The pancakes actually melt in his mouth, and he lets out a happy noise of appreciation, which Erica apparently takes as her thank you, because she pats him once on the shoulder and then exits the kitchen. 

Isaac goes back to reading his book, and Peter eats his pancakes while considering what kind of parallel universe, exactly, he’s stepped into. 

Derek comes into the kitchen as he’s finishing, sorting through some mail he drops on the table. “Peter,” he says, and Peter looks up expectantly, “I could use a hand finishing the book shelf, if you’re still up for it.” 

Peter chews his last bite of pancake, staring at Derek without answer. Because did Derek just ask for his help? Without prompting? 

Derek raises his eyebrows. “Well?” 

Peter shrugs. “Sure, why not?” he says, getting up and taking the napkin out of his shirt. He follows Derek to the nearly complete bookshelf, helps him put in the shelves with the proper measurements, and then they stain it a nice, shiny brown. 

Peter looks at Derek at one point, about to openly question. Because Derek doesn’t need his help with this. It’s not as though there was heavy lifting, or something that actually required two people to do. Derek is just letting him help, letting him talk about the nice lines and the good color and make jokes about hammers as battle weapons. 

But then Derek asks him to help him haul it into the house once it’s dry, and Peter shrugs it off, because, well. He had offered to help, and his offer had been genuine yesterday, even if Derek’s taking him up on it today seemed to have an ulterior motive. 

They bring the bookcase in, and Isaac compliments it. Derek gives Peter a smack on the back, his gruff, alpha way of saying thank you, and Peter just nods. He feels bizarrely pleased with himself. He goes into the kitchen to get a beer, comes back out to sit on the couch with Boyd and watch his ridiculous soap opera in silence while Isaac starts putting books and little ridiculous knickknacks on the shelf. 

But then Boyd sees him sitting there out of the corner of his eye, and he seems to consider for a moment. Then he reaches over and picks up the remote, and offers it to Peter. 

Peter looks around, points to himself mockingly. 

Boyd actually grins. “I’ve seen this episode,” he says casually, “Why don’t you pick something to watch?” 

Peter takes the remote from him, inspects it while Boyd watches, and is a little surprised that when he clicks the button, it obliges. He raises his eyebrows at Boyd, who just shakes he head and turns back to the TV. 

So he flips to ESPN19, and they watch a professional lacrosse game, which is something he figures they can all agree on. And when Isaac finishes with the books, he comes over and sits and watches with them, and they actually talk about the game, about what a terrible throw that was or how great the defense is on the one team. 

Peter finishes his beer, but he doesn’t want to break this weird spell of tranquility, so he just quietly sets it on the table beside the couch. 

Isaac looks over at him with a questioning look. 

“What?” Peter wonders. 

“Why do you drink that stuff?” Isaac asks, nodding to the empty glass bottle. “It isn’t as though you can feel the effects of the alcohol.” 

Peter shrugs. “I like the way it tastes,” he says, gesturing, “It sooths me.” 

Isaac purses his lips together, makes a face and nods, and then he asks, “You want another one?” 

Peter raises an eyebrow, questioningly says, “Sure?”

And Isaac hops up, goes into the kitchen and comes back with a cold beer for Peter that he’s even popped the top off of. 

“Thank you,” Peter drawls, and Isaac sits back down and they watch the rest of the game. 

***

That afternoon, Peter is heading to his truck to run Deaton’s errands, list in hand, when suddenly, his truck isn’t there. 

He stands there, staring at the spot where it should be, baffled. Apparently, it is necessary to lock ones car all the way out here. But who…? And how did he not hear…?

“Scott took it,” Cora’s voice calls, and she hops over the railing of the porch and walks over to him, “Just a little while ago.” 

“Ah,” Peter intones, shoving his keys back down in his pocket, “So nice of him to ask me first.” 

“You need to go somewhere?” Cora wonders, and Peter tilts his head back and forth. 

“Just running a few errands outside of town, picking up some things,” Peter tells her, and he shoves the list into his back pocket. “It can wait.” 

“I can drive you,” Cora offers, and Peter turns to her with his most skeptical look. 

“It’s not a short trip,” he warns, but his niece shrugs. 

“It might be fun,” she says, and she turns on her heal, goes into the house and comes back out with the keys to Derek’s Camero. 

So Cora drives him out to the weird Indian trading post up north, and on the way they talk about the music on the radio, and what songs Cora likes or doesn’t like and why, and Peter only argues once, on principle, because you can’t _not like_ ACDC. 

And when they get to the trading post, Cora comes inside, looks around the store while Peter gets his things under the counter, and when he’s finished he finds her looking at a small snow globe with a wolf inside it, and he would make a witty remark about predictability and werewolves habits with decorating, but instead he just buys it for her. 

On the way back, they drive past the preserve, and Cora leans her head out the window and howls to the wolves, and Peter watches her. When she looks over at him she gives him a sheepish grin. “I like to think they can understand me,” she says, and Peter laughs. 

When they get back to the house, it’s nearly evening. Cora turns off the car, and sits for a minute before moving to undo her seatbelt. Peter gives her a wary look. 

“I don’t blame you, you know,” she says at last, looking over at him. “I’m still mad at you, for everything that happened,” she warns, but then her face softens, “But I don’t blame you.” 

Peter stares at her for a long, long moment. “And I,” he says carefully, “As your all-knowing uncle, will appreciate the fact that you differentiate between the two.” 

Cora nods, and then she gets out of the car, and Peter follows, and that’s that. 

***

When he gets up to his room to wrap Deaton’s things in his leather pouch to keep from being able to smell them all week, he sees a shopping bag placed on his bed. 

He sniffs, and the smell of perfume wafts up his nose and then he frowns. Lydia? 

So he goes over to the bag, carefully peaks inside to make sure it’s not booby trapped, and then pulls out a tiny card with Lydia’s careful cursive. It reads,

_To Peter,_  
With Friendly Affection,  
Lydia 

And then _+Jackson_ is messily scrawled underneath that. 

Underneath the card is a carefully folded, nicely made, pewter colored shirt. Peter takes it out of the bag, can’t help but admire Lydia’s taste, and then laughs at the fact that this is, absolutely, how Lydia shows affection. 

Peter goes ahead and tries it on, because he can appreciate fashion like any good looking man, but then as he’s hanging it in his closet after there’s a knock on his door. 

Allison doesn’t wait for him to invite her in, she just opens the door and steps halfway into the room, and drops the armor she’d given Scott yesterday.

With several arrows sticking out of it and noticeable bullet holes. 

Peter crosses his arms. Allison looks his square in the face. “You were right. The armors crap.” 

Peter looks down at the armor. It seems to have taken the brunt of a beating, and he can only assume Allison is the one responsible for the damage to it. He reaches down, picks it up with one finger and holds it up. “And yet, instead of just taking my word for it and returning it and getting your money back, you had to test it for yourself?” 

Allison raises an eyebrow. “Look, everyone’s trying to be nice to you, but this is about as nice as I’m going to get. I admitted you were right, to your face. Take it or leave it.” 

Peter raises his eyebrows at her, shifts his head back and forth as though considering, and then he says, “Take it,” and offers her the broken armor. 

The corner of Allison’s lip turns up in the most imperceptible hint of a smirk, but then she snatches the armor and shuts the door as she leaves. 

Today has been nothing if not unusual. 

***

It’s only a short time later when he hears his truck pulling up the drive, so he goes downstairs to see Scott and Stiles climbing out of his truck with self assured smiles. 

Peter waits on the porch, raises his eyebrows at them. 

“Peter!” Stiles says, coming up to him, “What do you think?” 

Peter tilts his head. “I think you took my truck without asking.” 

Scott laughs, tosses him the keys. “We washed it for you.” 

Peter glances over at the truck and it is… somewhat shinier than before. 

“And waxed it! Even vacuumed out the inside,” Stiles adds, crossing his arms with one of his sassier looks. “Couldn’t quite get the smell of homicidal maniac out of it, though,” he adds with a smirk. 

“Stiles,” Scott scolds, but Peter looks at Stiles. 

“Well, obviously not, since you were riding in it,” he says, and Stiles actually looks like he appreciates the insult. 

“Funny man,” Stiles says as he goes past Peter into the house. 

Scott’s about the follow him when Peter calls him back. “Scott,” he says, and Scott turns, looking expectant, “Did you tell the rest of the pack to be nicer to me?” 

Scott looks like he’s going to deny it, realizes that’s a stupid idea and then gives one of his ridiculous Scott full body shrugs. “Is it working?” 

Peter actually smiles, goes over to Scott and puts a firm hand on his shoulder. “You’re a good man, Scott. You still manage to surprise me,” he says fondly, and Scott smiles back. “Now go inside and tell them all to stop, it’s creeping me out.” 

Scott laughs, let’s Peter shove him towards the door. Peter stays out on the porch, goes over to look at the pretty decent job Scott and Stiles did with his truck, and then sits on the swinging bench. He rocks himself gently back and forth in the swing, reflects on his day. 

It’s a once in a blue moon sort of thing, winding up with a truly good pack. And it’s happened to Peter twice now. They may not like him, and hell, he likes most of them less than they deserve, but they are pack. And they may not be family, nothing ever will be again, but pack is just about close enough. 

He can hear the rest of the pack inside, scrambling around the kitchen, doling out food into their plates, getting ready to eat. And then he hears Isaac say his name and he listens closer. 

“Where’s Peter?” Isaac repeats. 

Then Erica’s shrill shout echoes out onto the porch, “Hey Asshole, get in here so we can eat!” 

Peter grins, heads inside to smack her upside the head and have dinner with his ridiculous, motley, half insane, wouldn’t trade ‘em pack.


End file.
